


just ash in the wind

by nayt0reprince



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Character Development, F/F, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, multi-chaptered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: one love surrendered so theirs can begin.





	just ash in the wind

**Author's Note:**

> did u know silque’s english va sings the heritors of arcadia? some cool facts to share with friends™. plus the irony isn’t lost to me. but seriously, screw faye’s canon ending. she coulda become Bad Ass if the writer's allowed her to get her head outta her butt about alm's blatant one-target sexuality. also silque is really cool. if you don't think so, uhhhh??? okay. anyways. let’s fix this. semi-beta'd. enjoy!! lemme know what you think!! (feel free to yell at me about grammar stuff too lol)
> 
> this series will (attempted) to be updated weekly (so long as my planning with zines and stuff works out welp). i'll let y'all know if anything changes.

The coronation, much to Faye’s dismay, is a wonderful and unanimous success.

She makes her way through the crowd, buzzing with high spikes of anticipation building upon itself with every fleeting whisper and mumble between the common folk. Several years of war and impaling Rigelians and swarms of the undead made her anxious around large crowds, her eyes darting from person to person to see who has a weapon or whose fingers are twitching from a surge of magic bubbling beneath their skin. But for _him_ , she will bear it. For _him,_ she plucked up a rusted sword from the old hay piles next to her house and stormed the brigand-riddled paths all the way to a dawn where gods no longer walk the lands of Valentia. For _him,_ this is nothing.

The crowd erupts in abrupt cheering, and her determined footsteps stop as she lifts her head. Beautiful blue skies, perfect for a romantic picnic under the trees. Warm sunshine, casting an aging castle in a golden hue. Two people standing upon the balcony, hand in hand, smiles broad and love soul-crushingly evident as Alm - _His Majesty_ Alm - and Celica - _Her Majesty_ Celica - grace the masses with their promises of a better tomorrow. A chemistry unmatched by any other, as everyone from their little Ram’s Village knew since they were children. As _Faye_ long-since knew as a child.

It still doesn’t soften the blow that pierces her chest worse than any arrow or gnarled talons of a Necrodragon could ever dream of doing. 

Alm’s talking now, giving some speech Celica undoubtedly wrote for him ( _oh, Alm,_ Faye once chided during their school days, _if you cannot write, I don’t mind doing it for you!_ ). She tries to listen, tries to hang onto every honey-dripped word his soft, boyish lips utter, but all she can hear is a pounding beneath her flesh and a dizzying buzz in her ears. She clenches her hands tight by her sides and ignores the cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. The whole stupid continent is smiling with those two. 

So she smiles, too. Her eyes wrinkle, her dimples show, and the small gap between her teeth become bared at a fate so cruel, feelings swallowed down and boiling in the pits of her stomach. She’ll at least _try._

For Alm, of course.

*

“Faye!”

The hall sports not only people she doesn’t want to talk to, but the promise of decadent foods she often dreamed of sharing with him after the war. Her nose wrinkles, but her features take a sharp one-eighty upon hearing _that_ voice call out _her_ name. She whirls around, hands pulling in close to her chest, eyes wide and expectant. Alm. He’s crossing the hall to speak with her. There’s still confetti tucked in his hair, and she imagines reaching out to brush it aside, just to get a feel of those silky strands one more time. 

Of course, that doesn’t actually happen, no matter how badly she wishes it did.

“Faye,” Alm says, lowering his voice as he closes the distance between them with a quick yet much desired hug, “I’m so, so glad you could make it today. Did you try the cake? It’s nothing like your mother can make, but it’s still up there.”

Oh, gods, he’s indirectly _complimenting_ her. Faye twirls one of her braids around her finger, a nervous giggle escaping her throat. “Thank you, Al--” she stops, grimacing upon remembering her position, and corrects herself, “--Your Majesty.”

“Oh, stop it.” His brow furrows. “You’ve known me longer than almost everybody here, so _please_ don’t call me that. Every stuffy diplomat in the country’s addressed me by that name all day.” He sighs. A visible tension settles on his shoulders. ( _Oh, Alm,_ she once offered after a day’s worth of grueling sword practice, _let me rub your back for you to make you feel better, okay?_ ) “Just the price to pay with having royal blood, I suppose.”

“All right,” she says, hating how easy it is to grin, “Alm. It’s going to be so empty in Ram Village now that you’re gone, though. We’re going to miss you.” I’m _going to miss you._

“You speak as though I’m going to _forget_ you and all you have done for us.” He shakes his head. “I will be visiting from time to time. It’s still my old home, after all. Can’t forget your own origins, you know? But,” he glances up, gaze staring off to the distance, “I’m glad that’s not all I am anymore.”

Her response shrivels up and dies on her tongue. That’s all _she_ is. That’s all she _ever_ wanted to be, together with _him,_ in that tiny village where they only had to worry about the farms or daily minor drama to fill in their lazy afternoons. But like late summer, that dream slowly fades away into a cold, chilling winter that reality dumps upon her. 

“Ah, pardon me.” He’s looking past her now. Over her shoulder, at someone else. He’s smiling, almost embarrassed, before looking back at her. “We’ll talk later, all right? There is something I want to discuss with you, so please stop by the throne room later tonight after the festivities, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” she manages, willing her knees to stop buckling. “I don’t mind.”

“Good.” He gives her a relieved smile before bowing his head ever so slightly. “I’m so sorry, please excuse me.”

She watches him go back to Celica’s side. They’re talking, much too low for her to eavesdrop, and now Alm’s laughing, boisterous and uninhibited, just like he always did whenever someone said a dumb pun. 

(Hers always fell flat; Alm stared at her, confused, when she recited a joke she memorized from a book one day. _I don’t get it,_ he said. Of course he didn’t. He probably didn’t even know what camomile _was,_ back then _._ Didn’t stop Faye from feeling bitter, however, when he always laughed so easily at Celica’s attempts at humor.)

Faye tears her stare away and sticks her nose up in the air, straightening her back. She blinks once, then twice, willing the raincloud over her head to be whisked away. It’s fine. She’s fine. Everything’s _fine._ The knife cuts through the cake with more force than necessary, causing Gray nearby to jump with a gulp. Faye plops a slice on a way-too-fancy plate and stabs it with her fork, her eyes narrowing.

He’s right. It’s not as good as mother’s. It’s too sweet - much like the couple she watches blush at each other all through the feast and ballroom dancing. 

*

She’s uncertain how, but her weary feet drag her to the castle outskirts. She hikes her dress up as she ascends a hill to get to an old, crumbling stone barricade worn down over time. The Deliverance’s first major victory occurred around here, and she remembers hiding behind these very same stones, courage almost fleeing as she gripped that chipped, rusted sword with whitened knuckles. It seems so far away now, when their merry band of wannabe soldiers clung to possibilities of what their futures would hold. Innocent days. Kinder days. Their big win, however, changed the course of everything.

She sits down, picking at the dried skin around her nails and biting her bottom lip. Even from a distance, the ball’s music carries with the winds, serving a bitter reminder of what is undoubtedly happening behind those castle walls. She pictures Alm and Celica, _one two three, one two three,_ moving back and forth to the cadence of violins and a plucky piano tune. The image grows oversaturated and meshes together into a sea of ugly colors as tears well up in Faye’s eyes, unable to withstand the thought any longer.

She lost. Not just Alm’s love, but Alm himself. That boy only exists in a locked away part of her heart now. _King_ Alm is a man she can only keep chasing after, just to stumble and trip every ten yards in some desperate attempt to get him to _look at her, look at her!_

Her palms cover her mouth, stifling the tired, yearning sobs of a little girl wanting her most precious memory back. It’s not fair. It was never fair, trying to compare to a long-lost princess against a second-daughter of some forgettable farmhands. No matter how devoted or how educated she became to impress him, _Queen_ Celica was always three steps ahead. Those two are _destined_ to be together. Stupid, _stupid_ Faye. She snivels and wipes away snot with the back of her hands. How is she supposed to go see him after having all her dreams unintentionally smashed beneath Alm’s heel?

“Faye?”

Her sobbing stutters to a stop, a sudden chill sweeping through her veins. Her back straightens, shoulders stiffening, before making a hasty attempt to dry her tears and mask the ugly blotches spattered all over her cheeks. That gentle voice could only be _her_ , and _she_ is the last person Faye wants to see right now. 

The grass _whishes_ behind her from a determined trudging through the muddy patches on the hill. “Here you are. We noticed you were no longer among us for the celebration, so I got worried and came to look for you. What on earth are you doing all the way out here? Are you not cold?”

Of course some stuffy old worshipper of Mother Mila wouldn’t be used to clammy early spring nights like farm-born-and-bred Faye was. No, no - she shakes her head - this is her _sort of_ friend, and she isn’t sixteen anymore, so she needs to stop acting so irrational. Of course, putting that into practice always proved much harder than anticipated. 

“I’m _fine._ ” She answers with a little more bite than she intended. 

“Being able to speak was Mother’s gift to mankind, among many others.” Faye’s eyes slightly widen when a clothed weight settles over her shoulders. Silque’s muffler. It smells like wine. “It’s inadvisable to use it to lie so poorly, especially to a friend who cares about you.” Silque sits down, legs splaying out on the grass. Even in the dimming light, Faye can see the grass stains and mud patches adorning the prim and proper attire Silque always dons. The silence grows longer. 

“So,” Silque says. Ugh, Doesn’t she see Faye really _isn’t_ in the mood for gossiping? “What is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

More silence. Silque plucks up a handful of grass, catching some wildflowers between her fingertips. Her patience is well-practiced, and outlasts Faye’s stubbornness.

“It’s just,” she continues, lowering her head, “I was hoping for a different ending, maybe. Like, one where maybe he chose _me_ or something. Where _I_ could be the one standing by his side.”

“His Majesty Alm?”

 _“Ugh.”_ Everyone knows, huh. Even Alm knows. And still. And _still._

Silque’s gentle smile throws oil onto the fire burning deep in Faye’s gut, but it’s quickly snuffed out with a simple, “I’m sorry, Faye.”

The tears come back, and Faye digs her nails into her scalp, yanking strands of hair out from the force. Her throat burns as she replies, “It’s whatever.”

“It is _not_ ‘whatever.’ Your hurt feelings are completely valid.” Valid _and_ unjustified, Faye wants to add, but Silque has an arm around her shoulders now, and she’s too upset to speak, so she just leans against her new support. She’s a terrible friend as she is a liar, she realizes. Just moments ago, she wished Silque never showed up, and _now_ look at her - using her kindness for Faye’s own selfish reasons. She sniffs, and Silque, in her soothing, reassuring voice, says, “ _You_ are valid, Faye. Do not simply chalk them up to something silly, especially since it has turned your smiles into tears.”

“You religious-types sure like to wax poetic, huh,” Faye mutters. 

“I suppose that is a habit I developed in my studies, yes.”

“Is it, like, a law or something? Written in your oh-so-holy texts?”

“No, but I do like to speak respectfully, since I walk this life in Mother’s name.”

“But,” Faye says, wincing after realizing she couldn’t stop herself, “Mila’s - uh, _Mother_ Mila’s - kind of, well, _dead_ now, isn’t she? Is there really a point in keeping that up?”

She feels Silque suck in a sharp breath. The wind kicks up. Faye resists all urges to flee from the sudden awkward atmosphere between them.

“I suppose not. But my belief in her teachings and wisdom remains alive even still, as I am driven to fulfill her vision of her children living in a world in happiness and little strife. Or, as much as I can try to, at least. Mother Mila may have passed into slumber, but that does not mean her teachings have, too - and those teachings may be doubly useful, given this country’s present state of affairs.” 

“So that’s what you’re gonna do now that the Deliverance is done, then? Go all over Valen--er, the One Kingdom and spread Mila’s ‘peace’ or whatever? ‘Cause let me tell you,” Faye rubs at her itching eyes, “as a girl from the sticks, pretty words aren’t going to get anyone to listen. You might as well try getting a mule to lay eggs.”

Silque shakes her head with a jovial laugh. “Goodness, wouldn’t that be a sight to see? No, the Mother’s way is more than simple scripture, Faye. I would be performing missionary work - helping townsfolk rebuild their lives, performing blessings and offering comfort, and, of course, spreading Mother’s words.”

“Sounds,” Hard, dispiriting, dangerous, stupid to do alone, possibly rewarding and maybe even life-saving for some people, “like something you would do, to be honest.”

“It’s assuring that my character isn’t difficult to discern, then.” Silque allows Faye some space and clasps her hands together on her lap. Her gaze shifts upwards towards the darkening skies. “And you? Do you have any plans, now that the war is over?”

No. Yes. Maybe. Definitely no. She averts her eyes, cheeks puffing as she exhales. Her endgame has already crumbled to dust. “Well,” she manages, but doesn’t elaborate. Her brain clunks through fantasy upon fantasy, discarding them as though they are hardened bread looted from tombs, before finding nothing. Absolute nothingness. Plans? Life happened while Faye made _other_ plans and ruined everything. Now what? “Well,” she says again, lowering her head, picking at the skin flaking off her dry thumbs, “um.”

“If I may make a possible suggestion?”

Faye doesn’t really want to hear it, but she shrugs anyhow. No point in being too rude, despite her ever-growing bad mood. “Go ahead.”

“If it would prove any assistance, I would like to extend my offer of you joining me to the former Rigel. Not simply to have something to do, no, but maybe you will find your way to what you would _like_ to do. Or perhaps you can view it as some time and distance away from,” Silque waves her hands towards the castle, where the music, now slowed, has softened, “from here, and from His and Her Majesty.”

Apart from Alm, all the way in _Rigel?_ Faye nearly balks and jerks her head back, ready to scoff at the thought, but stops herself. She thinks instead. Where else could she go? Return to Ram Village, where she could never escape those memories that smelled of oranges and sounded like sticks whacking away at one another? Return home, back to the needle, back to her sister and brothers, back to her mother and father, with nothing but a broadsword, gold, and tattered clothing, lacking a husband? None of the men are appealing there, none of them close to the shine Alm possesses. 

Maybe she can find a replacement in Rigel, then. An almost carbon-copy. After all, Alm is originally from Rigel, right? It couldn’t be that hard. Maybe he has a twin. Ludicrous as it sounds, Faye toys with the idea more. _Or_ she could leave, have Alm miss her for some time, and he can marry both her _and_ Celica. It isn’t uncommon for kings to do that, right? Have multiple wives? Alm would never, _will_ never, but as her mother says, “never say never.” Yes, she’ll have to share with Celica, but she’s ready to make some compromises. 

“I leave for Novis Greatport tomorrow.” Silque rises to her feet and offer a hand to Faye, who stares at it almost dumbfoundedly, being pulled out of her conspiracies. “If you care to join me, make sure to pack necessities for travel, and come find me at the White Cliff Inn, about ten kilometers east from here, around five in the morning. I will wait for you there as long as I can, but please, do not tardy should you decide to come.”

Faye hesitates, but then takes Silque’s hand to steady herself on her feet. How could anyone be so generous? It irritates her, how _fake_ it all seems, but part of her wonders that maybe Silque is just naturally so kind. “I’ll… think about it.”

Silque smiles; neither deceit nor pity can be found in her eyes. “I’m glad to hear it. Shall we return to the castle before it gets much darker? I’m certain there’s still plenty of food to eat. Nothing is worse than letting a hard-earned meal go to waste, yes?”

She rolls her eyes. “I can think of plenty worse.”

But Silque is right - it would be a shame to let those croquettes calling her name be thrown away. She and Silque, hands clasped together, shuffle down the steep hillside and toward the castle. She swallows hard, calming her breathing, and readying her heart. She would bear this pain a little longer - all to get what she wants in the hopefully not-too-distant future.

*

Standing before Alm and Celica with her hands bunching into fists around the fabric of her dress, she curtsies and answers, wishing away the slight tremor in her voice, “I’m afraid I must decline for now, Your Majesty.” 

The mural depicting long-lost kinds in battle stares coldly at her as she straightens her back and sticks out her chin. The throne room, quiet compared to the rest of the celebrating castle, reverberates her words off the walls. Alm’s eyes slightly widen, surprised, before leaning back in his throne, head tilting to the side. Celica remains calm; her expression betrays no thoughts flitting about her pretty head. 

“I see,” Alm says, sounding slightly disappointed. Faye almost caves and nearly retracts her words, but stops in knowing that, right now, if she stayed, she would still lose. She licks her lips and closes her eyes. Long term, she needs to think long term. “Looking at you, and your packed belongings near the door, I’m guessing you have somewhere else to be, huh?”

For someone born of royalty, his inflection and somewhat rudimentary grasp of language reveals his farmland upbringing. He still seems like a toy-king, one she’s read of in fairytales - _and so, the village boy, crowned long-lost heir, declared peace upon the lands, hoisting his toy sword into the air._ Unfit to rule in tone, but those eyes never waver. Her heart stumbles over itself, and she forces her lungs to work properly. 

“Yes, Your Majesty. But please know I will come back as soon as I deem myself fit for what it is you are offering.”

“Faye, please.” Alm shakes his head. “We’re friends. Don’t worry about the rules of formality and what-have-you. It’s a bit weird, coming from you.”

She winces. Weird? Is it strange to act like a proper lady? Did Alm never see her as a lady in the first place? Maybe she has more work cut out for her than she initially thought. “Sorry, my lo--ah, Alm. But, yes, there’s someplace I need to go. I need,” she gestures vaguely, and finds herself unable to meet his stare, “I need more, uh, experience. In the world, I mean. I can’t just be in secondary-charge of the kingdom’s hospital ward--you know? I’m unfit to lead those who have seen and done more than I have. At least, right now. No amount of schooling can impart me the wisdom of the world. Or something.”

“Wow.” Alm raises his eyebrows. “To me, you’re already plenty wise, Faye.” Each time he says her name, she feels more of herself melt into the floor. “But I don’t live your life, so I guess I can’t understand how you feel about your own qualifications. Take as much time as needed, and know you’re _always_ welcome here.” He grins and nods. “Always. I mean that. The offer, too. Don’t feel rushed to come back _before_ you’re ready, all right?”

Her face burns. Oh, Alm. “Thank you.”

Celica clears her throat and steps forward. “Is there, perhaps, anything you should need for your journey, Faye? May we provide you with any assistance?”

Faye glances back at her bag. Or four bags, really, bulging from the oppressive weight of her belongings. She scratches the back of her head before giving a sheepish, unladylike laugh.

“Um. Maybe a horse.”

*

Its name is Amias. The dusty coat reminds Faye of the horse her father used to have when she was little, but that one didn’t have a white splotch on its nose like this one. Amias’s temperament, according to the stable hand, is somewhat unpredictable, but for endurance, no horse can be beat. “He’ll adore you if you give ‘im apples for treats, lassy,” the older man says. “The redder the better. But he’s a spoiled brat, this one - he’ll give ya a hard time if ya ain’t careful.”

She and Amias practice a few gaits around the fenced-off acre, from trotting to galloping, before accepting him. She didn’t actually think Celica would give her a horse. Part of her was joking, but Amias would be useful to traverse long distances. She raises a silent thanks to her horse-handling experience in Ram Village while signing the deed of ownership back in the castle’s barn. Amias snorts and whinnies, and Faye gives him a smile with a pat. There’s a scar along his left hind leg, she notices.

“Ah, that,” says the stable hand, “see, his owner died in the war from a barrage of arrows, or so I’m told. Never been the same since, I reckon. Be careful, now. The world’s dangerous for a pretty face like yours.”

She looks back at the castle, tinted a faint pink against washed stones from dawn’s slow approach. She thinks of Alm, dozing in his bed, drooling on the pillow. She thinks of Celica, nestling close to him, arm across his waist. She thinks of how the birds will wake them, and how a busy day will never turn Alm’s thoughts Faye’s way. Her grip tightens on Amias’s reigns, and she whips her head forward, hard enough to nearly break her own neck. She prompts Amias to move, and he _steps steps steps_ ( _one two three, one two three,_ the ball wasn’t quite over when they returned, and the newlyweds are beaming, in a tiny world of their own that Faye can’t quite get a glimpse of) into the quieted countryside. She bows her head to the guards in silent acknowledgement as her teeth grind together.

She refuses to admit this could be possibly the worst decision of her life.

She will not cry today. Tomorrow, maybe, but not today. 

_Goodbye, Alm. Please don’t forget me? I won’t forget you. Wait for me?_

Silque is awaiting her in front of the old inn’s doors. Faye tries to smile back at her, and thinks maybe she succeeded.

_I’ll always wait for you._


End file.
